


The Girl

by karrieblue



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:17:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrieblue/pseuds/karrieblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Francis, Mary was never 'just a girl'. She was THE girl, and by the time we first see him onscreen, he has already found and lost her once. This story follows him from the day he first sees the dark-haired girl who had crossed the sea to be his bride, to the day he awakens to suddenly find her gone, knowing that years would pass before-if ever-he sees her again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl

The first time you saw her, you were standing in the palace courtyard in that blue velvet doublet with the slashes in the sleeves that you hated because it was so stiff that you could hardly move when you wore it. Your mother had not cared for your protests, and even insisted that you change your plain linen shirt to the one with the high, embroidered collar that chafed the back of your neck. She wanted to create an impressive tableau for the visitors, put the best of the French court on display. "After all," she had said, snatching the brush away from your nurse and raking it through your hair herself, "she has traveled all this way just to meet you."

"She could have written a letter," you grumbled.

Your mother had blithely gone on, pretending not to have heard you. "You should think yourself lucky. When the time comes…and you are of age…you won't be marrying a stranger. You will have known each other for years by then."

Your parents had not known one another before they were wed. It hadn't worked out well for them. Perhaps you would fare better.

With her.

It felt like hours, the time you spent waiting in the sun that day, but when the line of carriages had finally pulled into view, everything began to happen very quickly. Men sprang about, unloading trunks, and women in dark, somber dresses spilled out of the carriages. From one of them, you saw a small, white face peek out, before a thin, dark-haired girl had emerged and looked around uncertainly.

"There she is," your father had whispered, bending down so that the words were spoken directly into your ear. At any other moment, it would have startled you, for you were not accustomed to having him so close, but you were too busy watching her gaze up at the palace façade with dark, sad eyes to be surprised by his voice. "She is a very pretty girl, don't you think?"

"I don't know," you had responded truthfully. When her eyes suddenly found yours, it had taken all of your willpower not to duck behind your mother's skirts.

She had a wolfhound puppy named Stirling and a brogue that you could cut with a knife. You might have teased her about her halting grasp of French if you had thought it would phase her, but you doubted that it would. She talked more than anyone you had ever met, even if she _did_ mix up words sometimes. Your father seemed to find it entertaining.

Your mother assigned her a tutor immediately.

There were a handful of young noblewomen close to her age who had accompanied her on the journey across the sea, but the girl had discovered quite quickly that your father intended to isolate her from them as much as possible. She saw her companions at mass, of course, and their governess would gather them all together once or twice a week to spend the afternoon in one another's company, but it was clear from the start: the girl was to have a thoroughly French upbringing, in the hopes that she would someday become a thoroughly French queen.

She had found the adjustment to her new daily routine of schooling, music lessons, and religious instruction a difficult one. Oh, she was quite learned, of course, but clearly accustomed to a much less rigid schedule in her former life. She trailed behind you in her studies of Latin and Greek, which irritated her immensely, and she often had to be prompted to stop staring out the window of the schoolroom and continue with her translations. She was whip-smart, though. You could see that.

Your parents insisted that you sit for most of your lessons together, and an immediate academic rivalry was born. The girl had a natural flair for languages, and after rapidly mastering French, she soon threatened to overtake you in your other subjects, as well. She simply hated it whenever you were ahead of her.

That would never change.

Your tutors tried to break up the monotony of those long hours in the schoolroom by capitalizing on this. One afternoon, only a few months after her arrival, they had bestowed you with an apple as a reward for having all of your sums done correctly. The girl had made no effort to hide her frustration at coming in second. It was palpable.

"There's no point in being sore about it," you had told her. She had retreated to a chair by the bookshelf, and you followed her there, holding the apple—large, lovely, and tempting—out to her in the palm of your hand like a gift. "You can have it, if you'd like."

She sat hunched over a copy of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ and pointedly ignored you. "I don't want it," she muttered. "And I'm not _sore_."

You had made the mistake of laughing. "Oh yes, you are. It's all over your face." Your voice was airy and bright as you tossed the apple up and down in your hand. "You should watch that, you know—showing your emotions so readily. You're far too easy to read."

"Then why don't you read this instead?"

And before you could react, she had hurled that copy of _Metamorphoses_ straight at you, knocking the apple out of your hand and sending it rolling across the floor, where it was promptly snatched up by Stirling and carried from the room, never to be seen again.

Oh yes, she was impulsive. You did not speak to her for two days after that incident. How quickly you had learned that she had a way—would _always_ have a way—of driving you mad.

Your mother had come to observe your first shared dancing lesson, and she listened intently while Signore Bracesco, the dancing master, quizzed the girl on her previous instruction. Your mother made it her business to know absolutely everything about _everything_ going on in the castle—she didn't miss a beat, that woman. Diane de Poitiers was also in attendance that afternoon, and stood behind your mother's chair to give at least the _appearance_ of being unobtrusive. Diane was your father's favorite mistress, and their son, your brother Sebastian, was often welcome at court whenever he was not away at school. Your own mother would have loved to be rid of her, but your father refused to hear of it, and your father was the one person your mother could not control. Diane was involved in all aspects of court life, and over the years a frosty civility had sprung up between the two women out of necessity.

It made your stomach hurt sometimes, to be quite honest.

Diane was then in the process of planning your father's annual coronation day celebration, and wished for you and the girl to participate in the festivities by performing a dance in front of the entire court. She thought this would please your father, and since your mother had to please your father by pleasing Diane, and Signore Bracesco had to please _everyone_ , it was decided: you would do as you were told, and dance.

The fact that you would have rather smashed your hand in a door meant nothing to anyone.

Having watched the girl briefly run through a few steps of the pavane and galliard, Signore Bracesco had frowned and tapped his finger to his chin. It was impossible to tell whether or not he had been pleased by her performance. "Are you familiar with any other styles of dancing?" he asked.

The girl had hesitated. "Well, there _is_ this one that I learned back home," she answered. "But…I don't think you have anything like it here."

Signore Bracesco had puffed out his chest and said coolly, "Your Grace, this is the court _of France_. There is nothing fashionable _in this world_ with which we are not familiar."

Her face was doubtful. "I am not sure what it's called, but I could show you."

"If you please."

She had turned to you with a face as solemn as the grave and said, "You may want to step back."

You complied.

"No, I mean _way_ back."

That alarmed you. You were alarmed even further when she closed her eyes and began executing a series of leaps and kicks that, at that close proximity, nearly knocked your legs out from underneath you. You fled to the refuge of the far wall to observe the spectacle from a safe distance, and watched in amazement as your mother and Diane had exchanged a look of horror and dismay, then succumbed to a fit of silent laughter.

When the girl was finished, Signore Bracesco had clapped his hands and cried, " _Brava_! _Meravigliosa_!" He then turned to your mother and Diane with a look of utter delight. "The Scots," he said with a hearty laugh. " _Dio li benedica_!"

It took a great amount of effort for your mother to compose herself. "Indeed," she had choked out, sharing one last amused glance with Diane. "It's a miracle they haven't all been killed by flying shoes."

It was only a few weeks later that your father had looked on as you and the girl danced the allemande in front of a packed court. No one watching could have guessed that, only minutes before, she had been holding your arm in a death-grip and trembling with fear. As the two of you had stood in the back of the crowded ballroom and awaited your formal introduction, you felt her fingernails digging into your arm, and when you turned to look at her, her face had been ashen.

"What's wrong?" you had asked, your voice both urgent and low, making sure that she alone could hear it. Even at that tender age, you knew better than to attract unnecessary attention.

"I-I'm not sure I can do this," she stammered. Her eyes had widened considerably and threatened to swallow her whole face. "I've never danced in front of so many people before."

"You'll be fine."

"What if I mess up?" she asked shrilly. A few of the courtiers loitering nearby turned to look at her with inquisitive, prying eyes, prompting you to take your free hand and press it over top of hers where it lay in the crook of your arm—a silent reminder for discretion. She had understood immediately, and when she spoke again, her voice had been little more than a hiss. "What if I can't keep up? My legs aren't as long as yours. What if I fall down, or knock you over? What if I fall down _and_ knock you over?"

You could not help but smile a little, and shook your head. "Don't worry. You won't."

"What if everyone thinks I'm a disaster and they decide to send me home and—"

"Look at me. They _won_ _'_ _t_."

She had glanced up then, and you felt the full, unleashed effect of her eyes upon you. "How do you know?"

You had never had anyone look at you like that before, like you had some kind of power. Like you could _do_ things. "Because I'll be holding your hand the whole time," you assured her, "and I'm not going to let you fall, and I'm not going to let them send you home."

She had held your gaze for a moment, and for the first time you felt like maybe you understood what your mother had meant when she said that the two of you were lucky.

She got on well with your sister Elisabeth—she got on well with everyone—but as the months went by she spent more and more of her time trailing behind you like a shadow. You were, after all, the reason she, her belongings, and her entire royal household had boarded your father's ships and left behind the only home she had ever known, likely to never again return.

Sometimes you thoroughly enjoyed her company.

Sometimes you wanted to pack her in a trunk and send her back to Scotland.

One day, having watched your morning fencing lesson with rapt attention, she had grumbled, "Why can't _I_ learn to fence?"

That had stumped you for a moment. "Because." She watched as you alternately flexed and relaxed your cramped fingers in an effort to loosen them up once more. "You're a girl."

"So?"

"So girls don't learn to fence. Girls learn to play the lute and embroider."

Her eyes had snapped fire. "Whoever came up with those rules is stupid. My music teacher bores me to tears, and I can't stand embroidering."

You chuckled. "That's because you're bad at it." Which was true. Her birthday gift to you had been a small framed panel embroidered with thistles and fleur-de-lis—at least, that is what she had _claimed_ they were. In reality, they resembled nothing more than oval purple blobs and pointed blue blobs.

For a moment you had thought she might argue with you, for her face bore that stubborn look that usually signaled the beginning of a spat. Then she had sighed, and her face softened. "I'm not _that_ bad at it," she protested.

You had said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow, causing her to roll her eyes before continuing her chatter. "I just don't have the patience for it. I don't mind it when I start, but when I spend hours on end sitting and working on something without making hardly _any_ progress, it drives me crazy! I keep hoping I'll learn to like it. I don't know, maybe I'll feel differently when I'm older." She exhaled loudly. "But _you_ —at least you're learning something _useful_. If I'm ever attacked, what am I supposed to do—defend myself with my embroidering needle? It's not fair."

"Maybe not, but who's going to attack you? Think of all the guards we've got around us."

"And what if an attacker were to get past them?"

You had shrugged your shoulders and grinned. "Then I'll be there to save you."

"And that's all well and good, but what if _you_ _'_ _re_ the one who needs saving?"

She had a habit of asking those kind of questions. The kind you never really knew how to answer.

"Then I guess I'll have to pray that the aim of your embroidering needle proves to be swift and true."

There were times when you looked at her out of the corner of your eye and tried to imagine your future together. It all felt so very odd. What would she look like when she was old enough to pin up her dark hair and wear long gowns? Would her steps be daintier, and would she stop her habit of careening around corners when the shoes she wore were heeled and glittered with jeweled buckles? Would she still gambol about in the grass with Stirling, or ruin her skirts with careless ink spots?

And would the two of you continue share that secret smile whenever you stopped in the garden to watch a bird wheel through the sky, both knowing that peculiar pang that came with envying its freedom?

She relished any time spent outdoors, and joined in whenever there were games to be played. She was an excellent bowls player, a savage when it came to football, and the worst hider in the history of hide-and-seek. If she wasn't found within ten minutes, she would simply abandon her hiding spot and give up.

"I couldn't stand it anymore," she once confessed, seeing the look of irritation on your face as she jumped down from a low-hanging tree branch and revealed herself before you had the chance to find her. When you began to walk away without speaking, she had tripped along in your wake and called out, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to ruin the game."

Her impatience was likely to be the death of you both. You just knew it.

"It's not the game," you had snapped, spinning around to face her and catching her off-guard. "Last week my father kept me in a meeting with the Spanish ambassador for three hours. Did you know that? _Three hours_."

Her brow had furrowed. Her uncles and political advisors, the Duc de Guise and Cardinal of Lorraine, knew better than to keep her sequestered in a political meeting for anything approaching that length of time. "That sounds horrible," she said, and there was utter confusion in her voice and expression. "But…what does that have to do with hide-and-seek?"

"It _was_ horrible, but that's _our lot_. Don't you understand? You have to learn to be more patient. You _have_ to. It's not the game. I don't care about the game." You had paused then, not knowing how to phrase your next thought, for it seemed so odd—so _surreal_ —to stand in front of her and acknowledge your shared future, to speak to her as your future _wife_. So you simply plunged on ahead. "Look, you and I are going to rule two kingdoms someday. Together. Think of how many people will be relying on us. Think of all the decisions we'll have to make! What hope is there of making good ones, if you can't be bothered to give them more than ten minutes of your attention?"

She looked so crestfallen that you could have immediately bitten off your tongue. Sometimes when you spoke, it was like you were hearing your father, and you hated it. "I know," she whispered, her cheeks red. "And I'm trying. Really. I know it doesn't seem like it, but I am."

"I know you are," you said, and that time, your voice had been much kinder.

Hearing your change of tone, her face had brightened, like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. "Besides, I'll have you there—to remind me to slow down. Won't I?"

Again, that _look_. All your life, you had been told that you were born to be a king, but it was that look that made you _believe_ it.

She had never needed a look from you to know that she was a queen. She simply _was_.

After one particularly long winter, spring had arrived in a burst of green that rendered both of you useless at your lessons and desperate to get out of doors, and for once, your tutors had obliged. They turned you over to your nurses, who were so exhausted from three months of chasing the two of you around the castle that they simply collapsed onto the stone benches of the garden and warned you not to roam too far. It was an unexpected—and unprecedented—level of freedom. In hindsight, they must have believed that the numerous kitchen disasters, three ruined carpets, and one gleefully destroyed feather bed that had been the result of your winter imprisonment meant that your capacity for mischief had reached its limit.

In your defense, the carpet damage had been completely accidental. The feather bed, not so much. The two of you might have gotten away with your scheme to blame the entire incident on a rampaging Stirling, too, but for that feather that had tumbled out of your hair and into your stew during the middle of dinner. Your mother had thrown a proper fit over that one.

But now spring had come, and you and the girl had not needed to exchange any words that day to know that _not too far_ translated into _run, run, run as fast as your legs can carry you_. Both of you immediately sprinted for the garden gate as if winged Furies were hot on your heels.

Of course, you had reached it first.

It was only a matter of seconds before she joined you. "You know, you look funny when you run," she had remarked, her voice winded and breathy. "Like you have too many legs or something."

You had shot her a withering look. Sometimes her candor was charming

Other times it wasn't.

"Maybe I could say the same for you, but I wouldn't know, would I? I'm always too busy _outrunning you_."

That made her giggle. "Fair enough." Her eyes had taken in the land that surrounded you on three sides. There was so _much_ of it. "Where should we go?" she asked, with a face both flushed and eager.

"Well…" Your voice trailed off, and you had looked away, suddenly at a loss. You had so little experience with life outside of the castle that you weren't even sure what lay just beyond its walls. You had finally gained a few precious moments of freedom, but you had no idea what to do with them. It was a little humiliating.

And then, suddenly, you had remembered.

"There's a stream less than a mile from here," you told her. "We could go there."

Her curious brown eyes glowed amber the spring sunlight. "Do you know the way?"

You nodded. Your half-brother Sebastian—Bash—had shown you the previous summer when the two of you had spent an entire afternoon there. The girl had been away at the time, off visiting her grandmother's chateau in Joinville. You remembered thinking how oh-so-very quiet the castle was without her, and how glad you were that Bash had been there to keep you company.

Of course, your father never would never have allowed you to venture as far out as the stream on your own, but, unlike you, Bash had a way of getting him to agree to things, just as he had a way of making him smile and laugh the deep belly laugh that you heard so rarely.

The girl had not needed any time to make a decision, for she immediately smiled at you and said, "Alright, then. Let's go."

When you reached it, you found the stream swollen beyond all recognition. In truth, the recent winter snowmelt had transformed it into river, and the two of you stood on the embankment and watched the muddy water as it roiled past, its dull roar filling your ears. There had been something exhilarating about it, the sound of that rushing water.

For a few minutes, you scooped stones from the mud and entertained yourselves by tossing them as far out as possible, listening as each one plummeted into the swiftly flowing water with a satisfying _plop_.

She could throw rather hard, for a girl.

Once the nearby rock supply was exhausted, she had wiped her hands on her skirt and surveyed the surroundings, until something downstream caught her eye. "Look at how that tree has fallen," she said, pointing. A massive trunk, studded all over with jagged, broken branches, extended far out over the water. "I wonder what happened. It's so big. Surely no one could have cut it down?"

"I wouldn't think so," you had replied, running your gaze over it in a quick assessment. "If the stream hadn't overflowed, we could have used it as a bridge to the other side."

As soon as the words had left your mouth, her eyes lit up and you had known what was coming. She was going to try to talk you into climbing out on that thing, and you were going to let her.

More than two hours would pass before the two of you made it back to the garden gate, and as you approached, your heart sank to see the swarm of people who had obviously been sent out to look for you.

And above them all, pacing on her balcony like a caged tigress, was your mother.

When you were a child, there was trouble and there was TROUBLE, and there had been no doubt which one you were in at that moment.

Your mother had emitted a sharp cry and disappeared into the castle as soon as she saw you approaching, and instantly dozens of people began to rush toward you. It was little wonder that the sight of you had upset your mother so. You had torn your coat. The front of your white shirt was damp and splotched with rust-colored blood stains. And in your arms you carried her—a wet and shivering little lump of girl with no shoes and an ankle swollen to the size of a Spanish orange.

"Set me down," she pleaded through teeth that chattered with cold.

"No."

"I'm slowing you down. You and I both know your mother has seen that blood on your shirt by now. She's got eyes like a hawk. Run and show her that you're okay, before she collapses and we've killed the queen of France."

Although you did not want to, you did as she asked and deposited her onto the grass with as much gentleness as you could manage. You had then taken off racing toward the castle—casting several backward glances over your shoulder along the way—and met your mother just as she burst from the palace doors and out into the garden in a state of hysteria.

"What happened?" she had demanded, her voice shrill, as she caught you by the shoulders in a grip that was painful. Her sharp eyes scrutinized you from head to toe with one glance. "You're bleeding. Why? Are you hurt? Oh, where is that blasted nurse of yours? Nurse. Nurse!"

"I'm fine," you insisted. "I'm only scratched."

No one heard you.

Your mother had been too busy rattling off orders to your rather sheepish-looking nurse to realize you had even spoken. "Take the dauphin up to his rooms," she commanded. "Draw him a hot bath and send for the physician. _Now_ —"

"I'm not hurt."

"—and for God's sake, find the Scottish queen. We seem to have lost her."

Your nurse had already taken you by the arm to lead you away, but you managed to wrench it free. "Mother, would you _listen to me_?" you shouted, pointing your finger at the tiny brocade heap lying far away in the grass where you had left her. "There! _She_ _'_ _s_ the one who's hurt, not _me_!"

It may have been the first time you had ever screamed at your mother. It certainly would not be the last.

Within seconds, a male servant had reached the girl's side and lifted her from the ground. As he hurried past, you could see how limply she hung in his arms. She had fainted dead away from the pain.

The physician came to examine you, and after applying a special salve to the scratches on your chest and arms, had pronounced you perfectly fine—much to the relief of your mother, who hovered by your bed and watched with eyes that missed nothing.

The girl hadn't been so lucky. Although not broken, her ankle was severely sprained, and the physician declared that she must stay off it until further notice. In addition to that, she had developed a fever, most likely caused from the chill brought on by her tumble into the icy water. For her, the immediate future would hold nothing but warm broth, thick blankets, and rest, rest, rest.

So it was you and you alone who was called to the king's presence chamber that evening and forced to give an account of what had happened.

As you stood before him, your father had glowered down at you from his chair of state with eyes nearly black with anger. "Before I write to the queen of Scotland's mother to tell her that the stupidity of our dauphin nearly got her daughter killed, I have _graciously_ decided to give you the chance to explain your version of events. So, by all means, _proceed_."

It had taken every ounce of your courage to find your voice, but somehow you managed. You told him of restless winter months, the siren call of the spring day, the rushing water, the fallen tree, the idea to climb across it. All of it.

"And whose idea was that?" asked your father. His voice was like chipped ice.

"It was mine." You had been surprised by how easily that lie had come. Normally, you were as good at lying as the girl was at hide-and-seek.

It was amazing, really, how a simple roll of his eyes could sting you to the core. "Of course it was." Your father heaved a heavy sigh. "May God spare this country when you are on the throne. Continue."

Was it your fault for bounding across the log ahead of her, or hers for trying to keep up with you? Did it matter? Either way, her foot had caught on a knot of wood and she had gone toppling over the side and into the frigid water.

You hadn't been watching. You had only heard her panic-stricken voice as she had called your name, followed immediately by the crash of water as she had gone under.

All this you told your father.

But you kept to yourself how her scream had frozen your blood, and how it had struck you as the worst sound you had ever heard in the whole of your young life. Worse than the bellowing groan of Acteon, your father's prized Andalusian, on the afternoon that you and Bash had sneaked out with a handful of apples for the injured horse, only to find him being slaughtered behind the stables, his wounded foreleg having been deemed untreatable. Worse than the howl of your mother's screams on the night that Charles had been born, when she had been delirious with pain and cried out for your father over and over, hour after hour, until you could have dashed your head against the marbled floor just to block out the sound, and still he had not come, for he had been away with Diane at her Chateau D'Anet.

Yes, the terror in the girl's voice had been worse even than that.

Her dress had quickly become ensnared in the tangle of broken limbs just below the water's surface, and the prickly bark had scraped your chest and arms raw as you fought to free her from them. It had by no means proved easy. With every passing second, the girl had become more and more frantic, and her dress heavier and heavier as the material continued to soak up water. It was just after you had finally managed to rip the fabric loose and she scrambled up the side of the log to safety that you had lost your own balance and fallen in. The effort she had then been forced to make in order to pull _you_ from the water had caused her to stumble once more—this time twisting her ankle underneath her with a sickening _pop_.

There had been no time to rest. Within second,s it turned alarmingly black and blue, and there had been no other choice but to carry her back to the castle, which proved to be a great deal more difficult than you would have imagined. You had never had to walk while carrying the burden of another person before, had no reason to think that you ever _would_. It had taken you well over an hour just to retrace your steps back to the garden gate.

When you had finished your tale, your had father looked at you the way that he had looked at the servant who spilled wine onto the papal emissary's lap during the previous year's Whitsuntide banquet—like you were an _idiot_. "Allow me to surmise: the future sovereigns of France—and reigning queen of Scotland—took it upon themselves to put their lives, and therefore _the entire futures of their countries,_ in jeopardy…because they were _bored_."

If the ground had opened up just then and swallowed you whole, you really would not have minded. Not one bit.

You made a vow as you left your father's presence chamber that evening: you would never give him a reason to look at you that way ever again.

During the ensuing two weeks, you had done everything in your power not to draw negative attention to yourself. You worked hard at your studies. You translated one of Cicero's speeches. You worked diligently on your supinated hand positions, and you did not fidget once during your father's lengthy conference with the cardinals on the growing Huguenot problem. You were a model king-in-training.

And when your sister had looked up from your game of dice and questioned whether or not you planned to visit the girl during her recovery, your answer had been an emphatic _no_.

"Why not?" Elisabeth had asked, frowning. "They won't let her do anything except read books and write letters to her mother. She's very bored, you know."

"That's just it," you muttered. "It's when she gets bored that all the trouble starts."

But when the girl was still confined to her rooms by the time the May Day feast rolled around, your guilty conscience got the better of you. As the evening had worn on and the adults' attention turned to wine and dancing, you had grabbed a dish, piled it high with the pieces of candied fruit and those little marzipan novelties that you knew she loved, and slipped away unnoticed.

Nearly everyone had been down at the celebration, which meant that no one stopped you as you silently hurried down the corridors and up the stairways to her rooms. At the doorway to her bedchamber you had hesitated, because you knew that you were not supposed to go in there at such a late hour. One of her ladies would be sleeping on a pallet by the girl's bed, and when you were inevitably asked why you had picked such an indecent time to visit, you would not have a satisfactory answer.

But it was not one of her ladies who cracked open the door upon hearing your tentative knock. It was _her_.

The look of surprise on her face had quickly given way to a timid smile. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.

Everything had suddenly felt awkward. "I brought you this," you told her, holding the plate out like an offering. "What are you doing out of bed?"

She cautiously set her lighted taper down on the floor and reached for the dish. "I get out of it every chance that I get. Besides, I'm the only one awake up here." She gingerly picked up a dainty marzipan flower. "It's amazing, what they can do. It's almost a shame to eat them. Have some with me?"

"I better not. One of your ladies might wake up, and I'm not supposed to be here."

"Bridgette is dead asleep. She had three cups of wine and hasn't moved in the past hour." She had pulled the door open a little wider then, and you watched as she sank to the floor and carefully set the dish in front of her before reaching out and gesturing to the space on your side of the doorway. "Sit here. That way no one can accuse you of being in my room when you shouldn't."

There were several moments of companionable silence before she, having finished the last bit of candied pear, had looked up at you from under her lashes and said, "I thought you were angry at me."

You had worried that she might ask such a question, and you fought the urge to squirm uncomfortably. "Why would you think that?"

"You never came to see me. I've been stuck up here for weeks, and it's been awful. I swear, I've nearly gone mad. I kept thinking you might come by, at least once." Her searching gaze then met yours square on. "So I thought that must be it. You were angry with me."

Your father always told you that a king must be skilled in the fine art of conversation. So many courtiers. So many ambassadors. You must know how to speak to each one. Know how to respond to their requests. Know when to flatter. Know when to be firm.

Yet she could leave you tongue-tied with a look.

"I guess I was," you had admitted reluctantly. "But I was much angrier at myself."

She looked down. "For listening to me, right? I know. It was my dumb idea."

"Partly, I guess. I knew better, and I shouldn't have allowed you to put yourself in danger like that."

"And you think you could have stopped me?"

"I would have tried." You had a sudden memory of her throwing that copy of Ovid at you, and you smiled lopsidedly. "I'm not so sure it would have worked."

"It might have." She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin upon them. "You said 'partly.' What did that mean? It's not like you did anything wrong, except for letting me talk you into something so stupid."

There had been a long moment, then, in which you attempted to form your thoughts into words, only to have them begin spilling out anyway, almost of their own accord. "If I hadn't fallen in myself, you never would have gotten hurt," you said bitterly. "I mean, I couldn't even _help_ you properly! I wasn't strong enough, or fast enough, or _something_ enough, and I've felt worse than useless about it." It was only with a Herculean effort that you then managed to stop yourself, unwilling to go on and tell her that you were ashamed, that when she had been struck ill with fever you had known that if something had happened to her, you would have carried that weight in your heart until the end of your days, and how every night you had wished were you different, had done something different, had been more like Bash, who would never have let her fall into the river to begin with, and how every night you had replayed the whole thing in your mind until you had come up with a dozen ways you could have done better, been better.

No, you couldn't admit that to her. You could hardly admit it to yourself. So you had swallowed those words down, and when you finally spoke again, you had sounded like yourself once more. "You've been cooped up here for weeks, which I know you've _hated_ , and missed the May Day festivities and—"

"I don't care about that," she had interrupted quietly.

"Don't lie. You love celebrations."

"You're right, but what I love most about them is the food, and since you've brought me my favorite bits, I don't mind at all." She saw that you were about to protest again, and she refused to let you. "Don't feel bad about my ankle. Don't feel bad about any of it. I'm glad it happened."

You made a scornful noise and looked at her, askance. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not. I'm glad, and you should be, too."

"For what? Nearly getting each other killed?"

She studied her fingers as they toyed with the hem of her nightdress. " _No_. Of course not."

"Then what?"

Even in the candlelight, you had seen the color rising in her cheeks, and her next words came slowly and not without difficulty. "Well, now I know—I _know_ —that, whatever happens…if I fall in, you're coming in after me. And that's something, right? Something to be glad about. And you…well…I would hope that now you know, really _know_ , that it's not just you in this…even if you feel that way sometimes. Stop worrying about my ankle, because I don't care about that. It can't always be you protecting me. We have to protect _each other_. You don't have to worry, or feel bad, when your strength isn't enough, because now you know that I'll be there. That's why you should be glad. I'll be there, and I'll give you mine."

You hadn't known what to say, and you hadn't needed to.

Some moments are bigger than words.

The long, violet evenings of that summer saw her rooms become a salon, of sorts. When the physician had finally pronounced her well-healed, he also cautioned her to limit her physical activity until she felt completely steady on her feet once more. This kept her indoors much more than she would have liked, and to prevent her from going out of her mind with boredom, the ladies of her household staged some type of entertainment almost every evening. Elisabeth often joined them, and even convinced you to go along a few times. There would be games of cards and dice, songs, and musical performances by the ladies who could play instruments. Many of them were quite good, too.

You had feared that your presence would put everyone ill-at-ease, but the girl dismissed this and insisted that you sit at the front of the room with her whenever you attended, caring not one whit for the nervous glances of her ladies, many of whom seemed unable to get past your future title. Once or twice you even brought Charles, whose mere presence could immediately lighten the mood of any room. He loved crawling around on the thick carpets and clapping his tiny hands to the music, and he happily soaked up the attention of the ladies, who _oohed_ and _ahhed_ over him and declared that he was the most charming, adorable little boy in all of France.

Whatever.

Occasionally the girl had taken part in the performances, such as the evening she joined one of her young companions, a tiny blonde girl with thick braids and a round face, in singing " _Laissez la Verde Couleur_." The words sang of Venus's despair over the death of her lover Adonis, and their performance had left some of the ladies crying, some of the older ones looking scandalized, and you highly amused at the spectacle. She had followed this by playing a lute accompaniment as yet another one of her ladies stood and sang a ballad that you had never heard before, and whose lyrics were in a language you could not understand. That particular song had seemed to set off an alarming chain reaction within the room, and soon nearly _everyone_ was crying—except for you, of course, who had no idea what in the world was going on and quickly began to regret your decision to come. Out of all of them, it was only the tiny blonde girl who, seeing your confusion, had the courage to approach you.

"This one's called 'Barbara Allen'," she had explained, her small voice barely audible. "It's a folk song. It's very popular back home."

"Is that why everyone is crying? Because it reminds them of home?"

She nodded shyly. "It's also a very sad song." As the next verse had started, she had leaned close and quietly translated the remaining words for you, for which you gave her a grateful smile:

_When he was dead and in the grave,_

_Her heart was struck with sorrow._

_'Oh mother, mother make my bed,_

_For I shall die tomorrow.'_

_And on her deathbed as she lay,_

_She begged to be buried by him,_

_And sore repented the day_

_That she had ever denied him._

_They buried her by the old church tower,_

_Him they laid beside her,_

_And from her grave grew a red, red rose,_

_And from his, a briar._

_They grew and grew in the old churchyard,_

_Until they could grow no higher,_

_And there they twined in a true love's knot,_

_The red rose and the briar._

Mary, Mother of God, had _that_ been depressing. When the girl had set down her lute and rejoined you, there were tears standing out on her lashes like glass beads, and everyone had looked at you expectantly, like you were supposed to know what to do. Well, you didn't. At a loss, you had offered her the sleeve of your green silk coat, but she had shoved it back into your lap and refused to look at you.

"It's just a song," you had told her with a self-conscious laugh.

"Oh, shut up," she had snapped. "You're a boy. Boys never understand."

Needless to say, that had been the _last_ time that you agreed to spend your evening among the ladies of her chamber.

As autumn approached, life had returned to its normal routine. There were lessons and feasts and masses, and unless she was off visiting her mother's family in Joinville, she took part in them with you. You kept the vow you had made after the incident at the stream, and the months passed relatively trouble-free. Of course, there were _moments_ —with her, there were always going to be. Like the time in the chapel when her leg had fallen asleep during matins, only she hadn't realized it and dropped like a stone to the floor the moment she had stood to leave. No one but one or two of her ladies would have noticed, if you hadn't collapsed in a fit of laughter that prompted nearly everyone to turn and look at her where she lay sprawled on the floor, much to her fury. Or the time she had rigged a sack of flour above the door of the schoolroom and watched from behind a chair as you had turned the handle and found yourself covered from head to toe in its contents. You had chased her all the way out into the garden for that one, leaving a trail of powdery footprints over half the castle, which your mother had most definitely _not_ appreciated.

Yes, there were many moments.

The days grew cold and brittle, and the nights long and endless as winter came on. It was during that season that you had awoken one morning to the sound of frantic voices and footsteps rushing just past your bedchamber door, and you had known instinctively that something unusual was going on, but no idea what, for you had never before heard such an uproar within the palace. You had hastily thrown on some clothes and followed the commotion out into the corridor, where you found Elisabeth standing in her nightcap and dressing gown, watching people dash around to and fro with frenzied urgency.

There were guards everywhere.

Elisabeth, looking just as anxious and bewildered as you, had no clue what was transpiring, either, so the two of you had stopped a young page boy as he hurried past on his way to deliver a message.

"Haven't you heard? There was an intruder in the palace last night. The guards were called after he tried to break into the rooms of the Scottish queen."

Something heavy had settled into the pit of your stomach just then. Something heavy and ugly and cold.

You and Elisabeth had immediately dashed toward her chambers, which were in chaos when you arrived. There had been guards, courtiers, and servants milling around _everywhere_ , and every inch of the room was being examined. The girl had stood in the middle of it all, clutching the hand of one of her young ladies and looking around with a face that was both brave and defiant.

She would not show them fear. Good. That was smart.

You had admired her for that.

Elisabeth crossed the room to embrace her, and must have asked the girl if she was alright, because you saw her nod and force a smile. You hung back, unsure of what to do, yet knowing you must do _something,_ because she kept _looking_ at you with eyes that practically pulled you forward of their own will. Finally you had chucked caution to the wind, marched over and took her by the arm, and pulled her out into the corridor where there was some peace.

"What happened? Tell me."

"I don't _know_ ," she had answered, following your lead and keeping her voice hushed. "I woke up and thought I heard the sound of breaking glass, and then there was all this screaming and shouting and everything was crazy. I was so afraid." It was then that she started to cry, wiping the tears from her face with the palms of her hands. Something in you had wanted to reach out and do it for her, which you found very unsettling. You had never felt the urge to touch another person's face before. It was…well… _odd_. "Ugh," she groaned, and nearly stamped her foot in frustration. "Why am I _crying_? I haven't shed so much as one tear until now, and here I am crying to _you_ , of all people."

You, of all people? What had that meant? "No…No, it's good that you are."

She sniffled and looked at you skeptically out of streaming eyes.

"It _is_ ," you had insisted. "If you have to cry to someone, it _should_ be to me, shouldn't it? You know you can trust me. Can you say that about everyone in your household?"

She had given the tiniest shake of her head.

"Alright then. Have they found out who did this?"

"No." Fresh tears had spilled down her cheeks.

"Don't worry. We will, alright? Look at me. We _will_."

She had nodded, but it was clear that there was something else bothering her. "I heard the guards talking," she finally admitted in a dry whisper. "They were saying that this shouldn't have happened, that they've been taking every precaution possible, and that whoever did this seems to have disappeared into thin air." She swallowed thickly. "They say I'm not safe here, and I'm so afraid that they're going to send me away."

"Send you away? Away to where?"

She shook her head, helpless. "I don't know, but wherever it is, I don't want to go. I don't want to have to leave another place." It was then that she had done something, something new. Something that, only years later, you would realize had changed _everything_ —for you, for her, for your two kingdoms, for the very stars in your skies - forever.

She had grabbed your hand.

"Don't let them send me away."

"I won't." She would never know how much you had meant that.

Shortly thereafter, your mother spotted you and had ordered both you and your sister back to your rooms. Before you had walked away, you turned back once more to see that the girl was still watching you, and you had flashed one last, reassuring smile in her direction.

And then you had gone.

It was only three days later that she had failed to show up for your morning Italian lesson, which was not like her. Not like her at _all_. A sickening feeling of suspicion began to gnaw at your guts, and without a word, you had stormed out of the schoolroom.

When you reached her rooms, you had found them empty. There were still some toys and ribbons scattered about, some trinkets and books in the shelves. But she was gone.

Later, it would be hard for you to imagine what would possess you to go charging into your father's council meeting like a demented madman, but you had done it.

Your father had seemed slightly amused at your display of temper. "It is simple. It is not safe for her here—at least, not now," he had explained, his tone nonchalant. "She has been taken to a place where she will be."

You were so shocked and angry that you had hardly been able to breathe. No one had even told you. _No one had even told you_. "For how long?"

Your father had continued to leaf through the papers in front of him as if the subject was of no importance. "I don't know. A few years, perhaps." Then he had glanced up, and you saw the smirk on his face.

"Who decided—"

" _I decided_."

Your next words had been spoken very calmly and very slowly. You made sure of it. "Father, I promised her that we would not send her away. I _promised_."

"Well now," he said with a grim smile. "It was not in within your power to do so, was it? _You_ can make the decisions when you are king, but while _I_ am king, I am obligated neither to consult nor notify you of mine."

Your cheeks had been so hot that you were afraid they might burst into flames. "I never said—"

"Oh, what does it _matter_?" he had interrupted, exasperated. "She'll be back in time for the wedding, should the alliance still hold."

"What do you mean, 'should the alliance still hold'?"

"I mean exactly that. When you are of the age to marry, and if the Scottish alliance still proves to be beneficial, she'll return."

"And if something should happen to the Scottish alliance…?"

"Well, then I hope you said a proper goodbye."

That had rocked you back on your heels. "So, that's _it_? Then what was the _point_? What was the point of bringing her here, into my life, and getting to know her, and—"

" _You_ don't _have_ a life!" he had bellowed in a flash of sudden anger. "You belong to _France_! She came here as part of an alliance that is beneficial to _France_ , and if that proves no longer true when the time comes for you to be married, then another will be made— _for the good of France_. The only certainty I can guarantee you is that your personal wants and wishes will have as much bearing in the choosing of your bride as mine did when it was time to choose mine: _none_. Now, are there any _other_ questions you would like to ask, _o future king_?"

_Yes. Did she look back as the carriage rolled away? At least once?_

"No," you ground out through clenched teeth.

"Excellent." He had then turned his attention once more to the papers in his hand. "You may go now."

And because there was nothing else that you could have done, that's exactly what you did.

You walked away.

And the years passed.


End file.
